PLOT SYNOPSIS: The people of Japan are stricken with terror when three hideous She-Monsters from a neighboring solar system land on Mount Fuji and proceed to carve a path of wanton destruction from Tokyo to Osaka. Despite the strength of an international consortium, all military efforts prove useless against the apocalyptic and stinking behemoths. One creature (“Festerinka”) excretes great toxic rivers of burning death-grease from her rancid nether-parts, while another (“Valtrexia”) paralyzes entire cities with quills fired like venomous spears from her scabby, flaking hair follicles. The third abomination (“Pimpesta,” a creature that nerd-consultants believe to the “mother” of the other two) is able to emit what frantic scientists identify as a laser-like “Skank Ray” from her six eyes, immediately hypnotizing and compelling otherwise decent young ladies throughout Japan to rob lingerie stores at gunpoint and then hijack the Internet by flooding social media with millions of inappropriate “selfies.” This ghastliness forces parents across the islands to commit bloody seppuku out of an understandable sense of deep shame.

As scientists (and a few eager techies) race against time to find a weapon that might halt the gargantuan space-harlots in their tracks, a mysterious and highly annoying insectoid figure appears out of nowhere to speak from TV Screens, radios, smartphones and computers, claiming to be the “Arch-Chancellor of Planet Trollop.” This intergalactic fiend broadcasts his twisted alien demands to the traumatized global community: “Surrender yourselves freely to immediate slavery, Earthlings, or be forced to watch a mind-murdering sex-tape featuring all three of our monstrous Ghoul Doxies — a sex-tape that we on Planet Trollop never intended to release, of course, but seeing as it was leaked entirely by mistake, well, we thought we’d use it as part of our diabolical plot to conquer the universe and so on and so forth.”

Just as the world finds itself teetering on the brink of Doxie Doom, a soft-spoken, emotionally fragile peddler of origami swans on the streets of Hokkaido receives a vision in which the legendary “Mothra Fairies” appear and speak to her in irritating synchronicity:

“Mariko-sama! We have spoken to our beloved monster on Infant Island and Mothra says there’s no way in hell she’s going to fight these three nasty hos, but you might want to ask Godzilla. He’s been dying for a watchable reboot since 1955.”

“But how will I get in touch with a fearsome monster like Godzilla? I’m just a lowly paper-folder and I’m only doing that because I got fired from my last job after my bosses told me I was a dowdy anchorwoman who talks like a six year-old on phenobarbital.”

“Don’t worry, Mariko-san. You do have the power! And Mothra says the only reason you were fired from your job in the first place is because Zborak, the Arch-Chancellor of Trollop, is the secret owner of your former network and he’s always had it in for you!”

“That bastard! I’m going to slash his scrawny neck with a particularly razor-sharp piece of origami paper. Why didn’t he like me? I … I thought everyone liked me?”

“Oh! Don’t start to cry, please. My, you are sensitive, aren’t you? Mothra says the Arch-Chancellor hates you because you are really a changeling princess from the Planet Smarm, deep within the Nebula of Vapidity. The Smarmies have been the mortal enemies of the Trollopians for thousands of years!”

“You mean I’m a magical princess from another planet? How can this be?”

“Haven’t you ever watched any of these movies, lady?”

“Good point. So what do I do now? How do I actually summon Godzilla?”

“Go to the ocean, Princess, and lift your eyes to the southwest corner of the sky, drawing upon the telepathic powers emanating from the Nebula of Vapidity. Then spin around three times and quack like a duck.”

“Hey, I’m good at that!”

“We know. Just do as Mothra says and Godzilla will come and swiftly incinerate the Space Strumpets.”

“Awesome. Now listen — after Godzilla pummels those alien assclowns can I have my old anchorwoman job back?”

“No! You may be a magical princess but there was a reason they exiled you from Planet Smarm in the first place.”

“My own people on Smarm exiled me? Why?”

“Mothra says its because you were dowdy and talked like a six year-old on phenobarbital.”

**MORE UPDATES ON THIS EPIC “IN DEVELOPMENT” FILM AS DETAILS BECOME AVAILABLE!**

RUMORED TAGLINE: Godzilla Vs. The Ghoul-Doxies from Planet Trollop: Only one monster stands between Earth … and a stench from beyond the stars.
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Escape the Imminent Collapse of Civilization, Friends, if only for a few hours. A sweeping modern fairy-tale is born with the Rowan Blaize series of books. Click on the book covers to the right or have a look below …

Book One = The magical cornerstone – a lavishly illustratedepic narrative poem … a genuine “spell” for the young and young-at-heart to treasure for a lifetime, telling the story of sorcerer Rowan Blaize’s battle to regain his magic powers. (Think Beowulf-meets-Dr.Seuss or an epic story-in-verse of a scope similar to Tolkien’s soon-to-be-released The Fall of Arthur, only contemporary.)

Book Two = The rip-roaring novel that continues the adventures of Rowan Blaize and introduces the three hilarious witches of the Ancient City, along with its dysfunctional werewolves, wraiths, ghosts, vampires, dryads, banshees and a beauty pageant brat that just might destroy the world.

Book Three = The next novel that finds Rowan trapped by a spell in another world, caught between a faery-squashing sorceress who’ll stop at nothing to conquer the kingdom … and a feisty teenage prince who’s determined to get it back.

GUILTY OF VEHICULAR FANSLAUGHTER: Zadora’s powers of wanton butchery have extended to every medium known to modern entertainment: There was no dramatic role she could not reduce to a sizzling pile of charred wood-shavings; no musical performance in which she could not mimic the tortured bleats of a goat being sacrificed alive to Lucifer; no obscure, taste-deprived European community of pop-starved barbarians she could fail to enthrall. It is impossible to pinpoint the throbbing nexus of Zadora’s cultural shame or accurately gauge the magnitude of her everlasting artistic guilt. The badness was mercurial. Its sheer destructive force was almost omnipotent and thus remains beyond true quantification.

RUDIMENTARY ANALYSIS: Long before the apocalyptic advent of rancid devilry known as “Snooki,” Pia Zadora boasted the glimmering rhinestone crown as New Jersey’s No. 1 grimy little Pygmy-blossom. The spawn of show business veterans, Zadora married a 54 year-old junk-bond pioneer, future corporate tax-delinquent and ostensible dwarf-fetishist named Mishulam Riklis—a man determined to inflict launch his 23 year-old bride’s “talents” upon the world.

Wisely (and perhaps tellingly) bankrolling Pia’s Skyrocket to Glory with a heartwarming father-daughter incest flick called Butterfly in 1982, Riklis set in motion a Whirling Typhoon of Pop Catastrophe almost unmatched in the history of ravenous Fame Whoredom. This squeaking cyclone left in its erratic path a trail of wreckage breathtaking in terms of sheer tackiness. The aftermath of disaster included numerous Golden Raspberry (“Razzie”) Awards for Worst Actress and Worst New Star of the Decade, marrow-melting disco duets with Jermaine Jackson, ill-omened lead roles in sci-fi comedies like Voyage of the Rock Aliens and “women-in-prison” flops like Nevada Heat, inexplicable collaborations with the London Philharmonic Orchestra and even a “stunt-cameo” in Naked Gun: 33 ½. Since Zadora appeared singing onstage in the very last scene of the film, and the movie’s subtitle was The Final Insult, one may indeed ponder the likelihood that Pia herself was intended to be the “final insult.”

Along the way, Zadora and her Grampaw Hubby controversially managed to bring the wrecking ball to Mary Pickford’s landmark “Pickfair” mansion in Hollywood, although Zadora could have stood in the front yard and caterwauled It’s Wrong for Me to Love You (theme from Butterfly) and the house would have probably collapsed into a heap of its own accord. The Golden Globe Award for Best New Star was purchased for given to Zadora in another scandalous episode wherein critics charged that Daddy Riklis unduly influenced the Hollywood Foreign Press to honor his itty-bitty wife’s scathingly reviewed Butterfly turn.

Divorce and the agonies of childbirth appeared to slow Pia Zadora’s Chuckwagon of Ruin until her dazzling reemergence in the dramatic (and regrettably real-life) role of an allegedly face-scratching, hose-wielding child-strangler on June 2, 2013. The setting was the affluent community of Summerlin, Nevada. The soundstage was Zadora’s own house … with guest appearances by the local SWAT team. If future women-in-prison films loom on the horizon for Zadora’s sure-to-be-imminent career reboot, she may finally get a chance to do some much-needed “character research.”

EXPERIENCE THE MAGIC: Of all the harrowing Legacies of Lame scattered like moldering bread crumbs upon the landscape of woeful entertainment “history” by Pia Zadora, perhaps none exemplifies her greatness more than the video for When the Rain Begins to Fall, a 1984 “HiNRG” dance-club duet with Jermaine Jackson. Remember: ‘84 was the year in which Jermaine’s brother, Michael, was attaining unprecedented global superstardom on the back of his masterful Thriller album. However, Jermaine’s stab at a piece of the “I Deserve Worship, Too!” Pie was considerably less convincing.

Behold the Epic Scope of Jermaine and Pia in … When the Rain Begins to Fall

With his head looking like a greasy, misshapen block of wood some farmer might use as a surface for decapitating chickens, Jermaine appears to have tried to stage his own, Euro-ripoff of Michael’s classic Beat It video, only Jermaine’s rival gang members are inhabiting some godforsaken village in Latvia and are dressed like mannequins from a 1984 Kmart Teens Department in Rancho Cucamonga. It’s all shredded denim, white linen pantaloons, sleeveless tees and acid-wash eye-patches. Jermaine himself appears to have been forced to glue a couple of his brother’s used old golden codpieces onto his shoulders to serve as epaulets. Fabulously embarrassing! Truly, I have never seen a work of such flagrant pointlessness as the video for When the Rain Begins to Fall.

Never mind that the song itself is excruciatingly awful—like being bombarded in your nightmares by millions of slashing sheets of white, lined notebook paper. The concept for the video seems to have been written by “Papa” Joe Jackson in five minutes along the margins of the Sunday morning comics-section and shoved at his son with the admonition: “Here’s an idea for your crap song, Jermaine. It’s got a little bacon grease and egg stains on it, but that don’t matter none. Now get the hell out of my sight! Can’t you see I’ve got to worry about attaching myself like a soul-sucking barnacle to Michael’s success? Hire that Pina Zamora girl. I played cards & hookers with her daddy-husband the other night and he says she’s lookin’ for just about anything to do right now. That’s right up your alley.”

Tammy Faye

Secret Love-Child of Tammy Faye and an Ewok? You be the Judge. Pia in 1984.

Pia unquestionably brings her signature wonk to this dreadful attempt at an MTV epic. Looking like the illegitimate love-child of Tammy Faye Baker and an Ewok, Zadora minces and pouts and “emotes” like her motor’s only running on one battery, or like she needs jumper cables to the brain, or something. It’s an Extravaganza of Awful, from start to finish, but the highlight has got to be Pia’s sunglasses—an incomprehensible fashion abomination that looks like something out of Maui Jim Meets the Invisible Man. Brilliantly horrendous. Enjoy.

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Escape the Imminent Collapse of Civilization, Friends, if only for a few hours. A sweeping modern fairy-tale is born with the Rowan Blaize series of books. Click on the book covers to the right or have a look below …

Book One = The magical cornerstone – a lavishly illustratedepic narrative poem … a genuine “spell” for the young and young-at-heart to treasure for a lifetime, telling the story of sorcerer Rowan Blaize’s battle to regain his magic powers. (Think Beowulf-meets-Dr.Seuss or an epic story-in-verse of a scope similar to Tolkien’s soon-to-be-released The Fall of Arthur, only contemporary.)

Book Two = The rip-roaring novel that continues the adventures of Rowan Blaize and introduces the three hilarious witches of the Ancient City, along with its dysfunctional werewolves, wraiths, ghosts, vampires, dryads, banshees and a beauty pageant brat that just might destroy the world.

Book Three = The next novel that finds Rowan trapped by a spell in another world, caught between a faery-squashing sorceress who’ll stop at nothing to conquer the kingdom … and a feisty teenage prince who’s determined to get it back.